Brotherhood
by AleraeEirtoren
Summary: The Listener of the Dark Brotherhood understands killing, not compassion. But what happens when she discovers her true nature as Dovahkiin and meets the one woman capable of pulling her out of that darkness? Now the Listener must face responsibilities she was never prepared for. Female Dragonborn. Rated M for Fem/Fem romance and later explicit themes.
1. Hail Sithis!

Author's Note: Although I've tried to keep this story as faithful to all events in the game as possible, naturally I couldn't make it a perfect job. Readers will likely find minute changes to buildings, speech, and abilities here and there. They are small, I promise, and are only there for the sake of the plot. Enjoy, and please be sure to leave me a review!

* * *

**Chapter 1: Hail Sithis!**

_15 Last Seed, 4E201_

For the past few months, they've all been calling me Listener.

I hear her, The Night Mother, too often in the darkest, emptiest stretches of the night. She whispers to me. Her words are never as grand or as momentous as those first few times - or especially as when she ordered me to kill the very Emperor I had once served, a lifetime ago - rather, they are small, almost menial, like flotsam and jetsam trickling down to me from her greater stream of consciousness… if it could be called that. There are also times when she leaves me with a gaping silence. I see these times as a test of sorts, in which I must wait, and I must listen.

I have pledged my life to the Dark Brotherhood. My Family saved me from myself when, wounded, burned, and half-mad with exhaustion, I crept up upon and strangled a man with my bare hands as he slept. I took his black-and-red armor. I took his food and his bedroll. I found a mortar and a pestle among his possessions and made a poison from some nightshade flowers I found on his person. I covered the dagger I stole from him with it. I held the poisoned blade in my hand as I slept next to my victim's cooling body and I tried not to dream of the horrors I had just witnessed: of my swift and wrongful arrest upon crossing the border into Skyrim, of my near-beheading, of the abominable face of a dragon - _a real dragon! _- and the terrible heat of the fires it breathed as they singed my hair, my face, and my hands as I held them uselessly before me. I tried not to remember the pounding rush of my blood as I made my escape.

I awoke the very next day on the hard and cold stone floor of what I would later learn was the Falkreath Sanctuary. My hands were tied. A woman stood over me: blond, sharp, intelligent, and deadly. She identified herself as Astrid, and told me I had killed a new initiate of the Dark Brotherhood. She gave me a choice: join the Family, or pay with my own death.

I joined. It was no more complicated than that, and I have not since had a regret.

That was months ago; perhaps it was nearly a year. I actively track the passage of time now. At that time, however, I did not necessarily have that luxury. I originally only counted my days in terms of my assigned kills: days spent gathering information, days spent stalking my victims, days spent covering my tracks, remaining in the shadows, and days spent in limbo, training, waiting for word of my next target. Their faces did not haunt me. They were nothing more than an end. They were nothing more than work, and no more than that. They were work that, over months, countless months, I completed with efficient silence. I raised killing to an art form. This was why, as the Night Mother later told me, she chose me. She said to me that, from the moment she first noticed my existence, she could sense in me the potential for greatness. Thus, I am now called Listener. I am respected, and feared.

Astrid has passed the mantle of leadership on to me. The life of a Dark Brother - or a Dark Sister, as in my case - is short and oftentimes is ended with violence. Such was the end of Astrid, my betrayer, the married woman whom I had loved in secret, with her burned lips making her final request of me: a mercy kill, a swift death. Now, she is the only victim who haunts me. The Night Mother will not tell me of her, other than that she now suffers gleefully in the Void, under the terrible watch of the Dread Father. She tells me to be content.

She guides me with her silence in this very moment, as I stand in front of the Emperor's door. A trail of bodies lies behind me. From the moment I boarded this ship, _The Katariah_, I killed with a cold and ruthless efficiency; I could only call it the force of revenge taken. I did not, and do not, hide who I am. I am wearing Gabriella's robes, bequeathed to me in her final breath, with the symbol of the Black Hand emblazoned on my chest like an insurmountable challenge to my enemies. I feel the force, _the fury_, of the enchantment she had weaved into it, and how it served to heat the magical twin fires burning in my hands. She, too, is with me now, my sister, my friend, my mentor in black magic.

I am without fear as I push the door open. I have chosen to enter this room in the most direct way, so that he might see my face. Emperor Titus Mede II sits at his desk; he has been awaiting my arrival. His final speech is direct and with purpose, and I allow him this moment:

"And, once more, I prove Commander Maro the fool. I told him you can't stop the Dark Brotherhood. Never could. Come now, don't be shy. You haven't come this far just to stand there gawking. You and I have a date with destiny. But so it is with assassins and emperors, hmm?

Yes, I must die. And you must deliver the blow. It is simply the way it is. But I wonder… would you suffer an old man a few more words before the deed is done? You will kill me, and I have accepted that fate. But regardless of your path through life, I sense in you a certain… ambition. So I ask of you a favor. An old man's dying wish. While there are many who would see me dead, there is one who set the machine in motion. This person, whomever he or she may be, must be punished for their treachery.

Once you have been rewarded for my assassination, I want you to kill the very person who ordered it. Would you do me this kindness?"

I offer no response. I am looking into the wizened face of the man who, simply by virtue of his existence, has caused the eradication of my Family. Nonetheless, his words strike a chord in me; I do not allow this to be apparent, however. I make no expression whatsoever. My mind is set upon killing, and therefore leaves very little room for any sense of humanity. He notices, and continues with a hesitance in his voice. It registers in me that he is fully beginning to realize the finality of the situation.

"W-well then, I hope you will at least consider it." I remain silent. He takes a breath, mustering his will. The hesitance leaves his voice. "Now, on to the business at hand I suppose, hmm?"

He turns his back to me, moving to the window. He looks up at the stars, likely willing them to be the last thing he sees.

As I had traveled from Falkreath, to Whiterun, and then to Solitude, and as I had tracked him down to this ship, I had thought many times of which method I would use in killing him. Shall it be quick and simple, such as a poisoned slit in his throat? Shall I perhaps stab his heart? Shall I dismember him slowly, and let him see his own innards? I could lengthen his suffering even further: I have a black soul gem in my possession, and could easily trap him there forever, and put him on my shelf. Or perhaps in the coffin of the Night Mother. Or perhaps stuffed into his own rotting flesh, beaten to a horrific bloody mass.

However, when I had donned Gabriella's robes, I decided that I should burn him. I shall burn him, I had decided, as his men had burned my Family.

I sit on his desk, letting him hear the sound of his various papers swooshing to the floor as I sweep them out of my way. I watch closely the tremble which he tries to hide and the small beads of sweat forming at his neck. I do not feel any cruelty, nor do I feel pity. I want to break his facade of patience. I want him to have it firmly in mind that no one can save him now: that his entire guard lies dead, all of them casualties of his own foolish attempt to protect himself from me.

But he does not move. To his credit, he remains steadfast even in the face of death. I wait some ten minutes more, but his will does not falter. My own patience, however, quickly runs thin.

I audibly stand from his desk. I will the magical energy to surge in me. It burns in me, hotter and brighter than the Skyforge. I concentrate it all to the tip of the pointer finger of my right hand, which I reach out to lightly touch the upper center of his back. I release my fury and watch him erupt into a brilliant column of flame, and, with the satisfaction of closure, listen to his silent scream.

I loot him of all his valuable possessions, stuffing them into my pack, and leave the ship, stealing one of the lifeboats attached to the side of the deck.

As I ride Shadowmere back to Whiterun, I am given plenty of time to think. Amaund Motierre, the man who contracted the Dark Brotherhood, my Family, _me_, to kill the Emperor, awaits me at The Bannered Mare Inn. I am to receive a hefty payment from him.

He wears no armor, and carries no weapon with which to defend himself. Like my last victim, he too would burn so easily under my hand… it is he, after all, who is ultimately the source of my Family's demise. His contract was both the cause of our destruction and our salvation: now, we are feared across the land, but at what cost? It has never been a policy of mine to kill outside of contract or outside of necessity. I think back on Titus Mede's words: shall I consider them a sort of contract, disregarding that he did not perform the Black Sacrament?

The Night Mother provides me with no guidance. I assume, therefore, that she is leaving this decision to my own discretion.

* * *

_18 Last Seed 4E201_

Whiterun. Of all Skyrim's cities, Whiterun is my second-favorite. I admit I am more fond of Markarth, if only because of its architecture.

My energy is all but sapped when I arrive, and for a while I must rest in the stables with Shadowmere, sitting in the hay, relatively uncomfortable in civilian clothing. My energy depletion does not stem from the ride - I did not very hard, nor very fast - but from the enormous stretch of time I had finally had to realize the true gravity of the situation. I am both leader, and Listener, for the Dark Brotherhood. Our home is destroyed. Arnbjorn, Gabriella, Festus, and Veezara are dead. Babette and Nazir have gone to the Sanctuary in Dawnstar, and I can only hope that Cicero - and I curse myself once more for sparing him - has not gone into another fury and attacked them. And Astrid…

I hold my face in my hands. _Astrid_. Tears don't come, but I feel the burning in my eyes. I feel fury once more, such fury that my hands begin to shake. I feel the familiar prickling in my palms as magic begins to accumulate in them, and I take them away from my face so as not to harm myself. I watch them as they shimmer. Resolve hits me with the finality of a funeral dirge.

Astrid asked me for one mercy killing. I will give her two. At my mercy there will be Amaund Motierre. I will kill him.

* * *

Now I sit on a bench under the shade of the Gildergreen, in the Wind District of Whiterun. Motierre's death had been uneventful, pitiful, _boring_ even. He did, however, have some excellent valuables on his person, which I now have safely in my pockets. I will put them toward the restoration of the Dark Brotherhood.

I must soon travel to Volunruud to pick up the payment, but I take this moment to rest. My hood, usually drawn to cover my face, is down. The sun touches my skin through the branches of the tree, which I notice are curiously bare. Is this tree not supposed to be a descendant of the Eldergleam, or some such thing? I ponder this idly as I stretch myself out upon the bench and fold my arms under my head. I look up at it, my eyes hooded, and intend to lay for a few minutes…

The sky is dusky when I am roughly shaken awake a few hours later. "Hey!" A Whiterun guard stands before me holding a torch. "You can't sleep on the benches, Imperial. Go to an inn." Her voice is distinctly feminine, neither too high nor too low. She wears no helmet over her black hair, and her green eyes are brilliant in the half-light. Her posture is haughty, as are her face, the slant of her brow, her proud nose, and her sensuous mouth. I find myself liking her immediately.

I stand and move too close to her. Yes, I like her, this proud and lowly guard. She does not relent under the piercing stare I throw at her - a stare which has caused many lowly wretches to cower - and instead she stands just a bit taller, raises that nose just a bit higher, narrows those green eyes and makes that mouth just a bit tighter. "Get gone, Imperial." Her voice is tight, too. Unbeknownst to her, my replying grin is a marker of my decision not to kill her, despite several necessities for her death coming to mind. She does not step back, and stares directly at me with a force to match my own. I notice no tremble, no sign of fear.

In a rare gesture of deference, I step back from her. I make a sweeping, mocking bow. I say to her, "Of course, _ma'am_," and saunter away, my grin still quite present. I am likely deriving too much pleasure from this, I think as I stroll out of Whiterun, but I suppose I should just let it be; I admit to myself, now, that any small joy is most welcome.


	2. The Blessings of Nature

_2 Sun's Dusk, 4E201_

Once again I am in Whiterun. It seems that I can never escape this city; always - _always_ - something needs to be done here. Admittedly I find it incredible how many people in this city just need to _die_.

Cicero crouches beside me, mumbling to himself. Despite his numerous idiosyncrasies he has proven to be an able and even useful follower. He and his dagger are a deadly and nigh unstoppable force… That said, I hate him. He irritates me. He cannot control his outbursts and has more than once given nearby guards notice of our presence. He is at his best out in the open, where he can be loud and violent, as is his wont. He will gleefully kill anyone, anywhere, and with no hesitation. He doesn't even wear a mask to help him avoid getting a bounty put on his head. I, on the other hand, would much prefer stealth and anonymity.

The shadows of the upper eaves of the Great Porch in Dragonsreach shield us from the eyes of the guards below. Our target, a visiting noble from Solitude, stands off to the side and converses with the Jarl's Steward as they look out over the city. They are likely discussing the recent sightings of dragons in the Hold's smaller towns. I have been noticing this kind of talk all over Skyrim. A brief memory of my first few wakeful hours in Helgen flits across my mind, but I force it away quickly.

I decide that now is the time. "Cicero," I hiss, "the poison."

"_Yes_, Listener." His voice mocks me as he proffers a small bottle from his pocket. I coat the tip of an arrow with it, and ready my bow. I swear he will give me an excellent reason to kill him some day.

I release the arrow just as I notice the entrance of a certain guard. That proud stride, that black hair and distinct lack of a helmet, as she approaches a fellow guard with the intention of speaking with him, catch my attention in an instant. "_Listener!_" Cicero's voice, in a moment of odd clarity, shatters my brief reverie. The green-eyed guard is looking straight at me… as are the rest of the people on the Great Porch, including the noble, still standing, unharmed. The arrow had flown uselessly past him.

They attack.

Cicero leaps from the rafters, enchanted blades drawn, spinning about in a deadly whirlwind. I leap after him. Our target, the noble, goes down first. Next he dives headfirst into an onslaught of guards. His laughter is maniacal and his face is wild and covered in blood. The clamor of battle alerts guards throughout the building, and in short order they are pouring out of the door leading to the Great Porch. They attack me in odd numbers. I burn them all.

The mission has been botched; Cicero and I must escape. A battlecry erupts from the black-haired guard as she bursts from the throng to attack him.

Their dance is beautiful in its own appalling way. Behind Cicero lies a pile of broken and bleeding bodies, but she is not deterred. She fights without fear of death. She looks directly into the eyes of my mad partner, knowing him for the force that he is, but does not fail to consistently deflect one of his blades with her shield, and the other with her sword. His laugh grows ever louder, and I fear that he is just playing with her now. I see the glint in his eyes. This will not last much longer. He will kill her.

I leave burning bodies in my wake as I make my way to them. I do not wear armor, just enchanted robes and a mask. I have no protection when, from my peripheral vision, I see one of my burning victims, in his last breath, swing his axe at my thigh. It burns.

Trailing blood and blinded by pain, I leap forward, tearing the burning axe from my wound with my bare hand and tossing it somewhere. I land gracelessly over the black-haired guard, whom Cicero had in that instant thrown down, and effectively stop him from delivering the killing blow. "_Get out of here!_" I order.

Scowling, he sheathes his weapons and, without looking back, makes his escape. As he runs he yells, "Faithful Cicero will clean up for you!"

"By oder of the Jarl…" The guard croaks, having apparently been given a hard blow to the stomach, her face the very picture of fury, her green eyes piercing into mine like harpoons, "… I command you to halt…" She grabs hold of my sleeve.

More guards enter the area, having come in from the streets. I look at her once more before using my other hand to burn off the portion of the sleeve she had taken. I ignore the pain in my leg once more and, in a rushed and admittedly foolish decision, I leap off the side of the Great Porch.

I had trained beforehand for such a situation, were it ever to arise. I have always had a plan of action for something like this, although in this very moment I have no idea if it will really work. With a silent prayer to any and all listening deities, I focus my hands down toward my feet so that I am arched toward the ground and taut like a bow, and with every measure of magicka in my bones, I cast a continuous Flames spell at the fullest possible power.

The magical fire is hot and does only a little to slow me down, but it is enough. It cushions my fall enough for me to survive with what I believe to be a broken leg. But I can not stop here. Under the cover of the surrounding trees I hobble my way to the nearest doors I see. I hear a noise behind me and turn briefly to see the mad grin of Cicero as he drops a female body, clad in robes and mask similar to mine, on the spot where originally I had fallen. "Rest well, Listener!" He calls out behind me. I bless him, and I curse him.

I pull hard on the slanted doors of the basement of a large building… I hope that it's the right one. They are blessedly unlocked. I clamber my way in, and shut the doors behind me.

* * *

_5 Sun's Dusk, 4E201_

I am a civilian under the care of the priestess Danica Pure-Spring, hidden in plain sight with a common injury in the Temple of Kynareth in Whiterun. I had waited until night fell before crawling to the upper level of the building, having carefully stashed my Brotherhood robes and mask under a loose stone in the basement floor. I had then waited by the front door until she came in the morning. I told her that I am an adventurer, and was injured by bandits. She had asked no further questions, not even my name.

The priestess is a master of the Restoration school - my antithesis - and she is rare in this respect. This particularly thankless school of magic has few true masters. To be a master of this school requires a form of patience peculiar to a god: the master must be willing to both aid those who come to him for it, and to endure the ridicule of those same fools once they are cured. Watching her work makes me feel rather contemplative, if not philosophical. I can not do much else, given that my leg is in a splint and I can only move about with the aid of a cane. She can not heal me instantaneously. My injury is such, she says, that it would be wiser for her only to help the healing process along.

No one who enters or exits the temple seems to recognize me, not even the occasional injured guard. Good. I am once again most thankful for the Dark Brotherhood's practice of wearing masks and hoods. And no one is searching for me; they all think that I did not survive the fall. I have heard the eyewitness accounts as they've trickled in through the temple doors, with their various degrees of exaggeration.

Nonetheless, I had requested of Danica that she place my cot in the furthest, and darkest, corner of the temple. I offered no explanation as to why, and she asked for none.

She is a good and patient woman. I sorely hope that I shall not have to kill her, should she discover my true identity. The world would lose a fine example of the goodness to be found in mankind, and of this there are painfully too few examples. _I_ am certainly not one.

Danica approaches me, offering water. I take the cup gratefully and she sits on a nearby chair to rest for a moment. Her exhaustion is not hard to notice. "Are you the only Priestess of Kynareth in Whiterun?" I ask her in one of my rare moments of desire for conversation.

She leans back in the chair, stretching her legs out in front of her - most unladylike, I notice, smirking - and says, "Indeed. The temple here in the city is my charge. The goddess's divine blessings have no doubt helped make Whiterun a thriving and prosperous city. After all, it is she who brings rain to our crops and fair weather on the harvest days." Her accent is that of a true Nord, born and raised, and her religious fervor even more so.

"But I noticed that the Gildergreen outside is dying, and your temple is full of wounded soldiers. I take it the Stormcloak uprising has interrupted your normal duties." Her temple could also use a good sweeping… and I haven't seen her eat a proper meal since I've been here…

"Somewhat, yes," she replies, "At first it seemed a distant thing, heard only in the idle speech of guards and traders. When the wounded soldiers began to return from battle, I did what I could to help them. As more of the sick and injured came to the temple, my work as a healer became more important than my duties as a priestess. I wish only an end to the fighting, so that I can tend to the temple once more." Ah, yes. Truly, she is a master of Restoration: a healer above all things, even her own duties to her gods. She leans toward me to check my injuries. She asks me, "Do you have magical aptitude, Adventurer?"

I make a quick calculation. Cicero should be hovering somewhere near to the city, should I need assistance, and the guards _do_ all seem to think that I am dead… telling her this probably couldn't hurt. "I am a master of Destruction magic, though I dabble in most schools."

"_Ah_," a slight shake of her head, "Destruction." Her palm glows as she gently assists my bones with healing themselves. "You open the wounds that I must close." Her head is bent, but I can hear her wry smile.

My responding huff of a laugh is short and unhurried, "I do know a small healing charm. It's mostly for minor cuts and burns."

"Thus the patchwork job I see on your thigh?" She lifts my dress somewhat to look at the wound. "You have successfully closed the flesh above, but below it still heals. Walk gently upon it."

"I shall," I respond. I make a decision, here and now, to help this extraordinary woman. "Danica, I wish to assist you when I have healed somewhat. If you will teach me a lesson or two in Restoration, I will sweep the temple floor and cook you a proper meal."

"Hmm," she leans back in her chair once more, "Have you a desire to tend to the sick? Assist the wounded?"

I admit, I do not know how to respond to this question. I _cause_ sickness, fatal sickness, for I am a poisoner. I _cause_ wounds, fatal wounds, for I am an assassin. "Must one… have such desires in order to study Restoration?"

Her steady gaze reprimands me in an almost parental fashion, "No, Adventurer, one must not. It is but the difference between mastery and mediocrity." She pauses for a short moment, "Your own school must certainly also make such distinctions between master and pupil."

I think quietly as she moves on to tend other patients. What quality makes a master of Destruction, truly, a master? I look at my hands. They are covered in so much blood and burnt flesh. The answer to my question comes to me all too quickly. What makes a master of Destruction?

_Cruelty_.

* * *

_15 Sun's Dusk, 4E201_

A chill has settled over Whiterun. A light snow dusts the paving stones which I and my three legs are hobbling over. Danica leads me the short distance to one of the benches under the Gildergreen. I have learned that she often comes here to think and to pray, and today, she is taking me here to continue my recent lessons in Restoration.

Thanks to her instruction I now know two real spells: one to heal myself, and one to heal others. They are relatively weak spells, but they were gained through a great deal of tedious practice on my part. I admit that I am rather proud of them.

My lesson is short today, however. Danica seems too distracted by the dilapidated state of the tree. "It's a shame, isn't it?" She says finally, a slight tinge of melancholy in her voice.

I look up at the bare branches of the Gildergreen. The weary wood creaks and groans in the cold breeze. "What happened to it?"

"It was taken by a lightning strike," she replies sorely. "For years, Disciples of Kynareth traveled from far to hear the winds of the goddess in its branches. Of course, not as many pilgrims these days. A big dead tree isn't very inspiring if you're coming to worship the divine of wind and rains. Kynareth gives life, and we need a living tree to be her symbol."

I continue to contemplate the skeleton before me. I find the image comforting, after a sense. Familiar. "This tree was grown from a cutting of the Eldergleam, wasn't it?" The lore is somewhat diluted in my mind, based largely upon hearsay and the extensive research I would often undertake for my assignations.

Danica seems pleased. "It is." She crosses her arms against the chill. "The Eldergleam is the oldest living thing in Skyrim. Maybe all of Tamriel. The sap is precious. It can restore barren fields or bring life to rocks. I can use it to repair the Gildergreen, so we can worship properly again."

"So we need to extract its sap somehow?"

"Hmm, yes, but even if you could get to the Eldergleam, you couldn't tap it. Not with any normal metal. Eldergleam is older than metal, from a time before men or elves. To even affect it, you have to tap into the old magic. You'll have to deal with the Hagravens. I've heard about a weapon they've made for sacrificing Spriggans. It's called 'Nettlebane.' The hags terrify me, or I would have gone after it myself."

Crawl into the cave and fight the witch to retrieve the magic dagger, eh? How wonderfully typical, I think, how noble. "Sounds like quite the task." I say quietly, as I roll my cane idly between my palms.

* * *

_28 Sun's Dusk, 4E201_

Danica's skill certainly has proven itself. I am fully healed and returned to full strength in a month's time. Injuries such as those I had should have taken a minimum of two months' time, or perhaps three, but surely not one.

Standing before the door, I give the cane to her. "You have my deepest gratitude," I say as I shake her hand.

Her smile is warm. "I hope that we may meet again someday - although under more fortunate circumstances."

I nod and take my leave. Cicero is waiting for me at a small distance from the stables, Shadowmere's reins in hand. His raving never ceases, nor do his personal addresses to myself sound any less mocking. For most of our journey to Dawnstar I ignore him and occupy my mind with other contemplations. It has just occurred to me that the Night Mother has barely spoken to me throughout the time of my convalescence in the Temple of Kynareth. I heard her faint whispering, here and there, but never any direct communications. The realization leaves me with a strange sense of unease.

We make it to Dawnstar with relatively few hindrances. I sell off the bear pelts I'd accumulated along the way to the local blacksmith. The man's name is Rustleif, I believe. He gives me special rates and tries his absolute best _not_ to look directly at Cicero.

The Sanctuary is a flurry of activity upon my arrival. Nazir and Babette are the first in line to greet me, taking my satchel and sitting me in a chair at the table in the main room. In a flash there is a cup of warm spiced wine before me and a bowl of rich venison stew. The initiates mill about, performing various tasks. The once-desolate Dawnstar Sanctuary is now as busy as a small city.

We make light conversation, though truthfully I find myself unwilling to sit here and tell them the tale in its entirety. Back in this familiar company, I feel my usual compulsion for reticence returning. In each of their faces I see only what has occurred and I see the faces presently, and painfully, absent. I excuse myself without much further ado and retire to my chamber. I try my absolute best not to think of gleaming golden hair in the firelight, of dark eyes, of a biting and deadpan wit, or of a cracked and burnt and broken body, requesting final peace by my hand.

* * *

_1 Evening Star, 4E201_

In the darkest hour, the Night Mother calls to me in my sleep. _Listener_. If snakes could talk, they would sound like her. _Approach me_. I rise dutifully. I slip on my boots and a cloak to ward off the cold of living under the ground of the tundra. _Listener_. It occurs to me that the Night Mother likely can not completely read my thoughts; she does not seem to even know my real name. _Listener_.

I climb the stairs from the main room of the Sanctuary and approach the alcove in which we keep her coffin. I think of it as a throne of sorts, or perhaps an altar. I look upon her corpse and its odd, mangled position. I feel a prickly comfort as I watch it glow with the power of the Void, which Mother is gathering in order to commune with me. I also notice that Cicero is asleep off to the side, his body curled up against the cold stone wall. The Night Mother's consciousness once more touches mine. _Listener, I know where you have been. I have been unable to reach you through the Light of Kynareth._

"Forgive me, Mother, if I have transgressed."

_Such are the necessities of weak mortal flesh. However, my Listener, I call you now to tell you of the many contracts gone neglected. Many children have prayed to their Mother…_

The list is long, very long. The Sanctuary is sure to see a most welcome pile of gold for this. I awaken Nazir and Babette; together we are a makeshift, three-fingered Black Hand. We divvy up the various contracts between ourselves and in short order are on the road. We each have a long list of contacts, and I imagine I will not be able to see the Sanctuary again for some time.

I hope Cicero won't kill any of the initiates while we're gone.

* * *

_20 Evening Star, 4E201_

The new year approaches. I am content with the knowledge that I will likely be able to spend the Eve of the new year in the comfort of my Sanctuary. I am at the Dead Man's Drink Inn at Falkreath. I am not comfortable here; it is too near to Astrid's grave. I would certainly not have stayed here were I not so exhausted.

Through the window, I watch the sun rise above the hills. A question rolls back and forth in my mind. In my travels I have learned the exact location of the Hagraven in possession of Nettlebane: the creature resides at the peak of Orphan Rock. It isn't very far from here, maybe half a day's journey. Shall I go there to retrieve this weapon? I am not truly an adventurer. I am a Dark Sister, an assassin. Before that, I was just a mage. But never was I the sort to relish delving into caves and tombs.

I remember the kindness of the priestess Danica Pure-Spring. Am I honor-bound to return her kindness? Do I even have the capacity to be _bound_ for the sake of honor? It begs the question as to whether or not I possess any measure of honor at all. The likely answer is _no_, of course.

_Still_… I fold my arms. Perhaps a little bit of adventure couldn't hurt. At the very least I could find something valuable, something worth taking for myself and selling. The Sanctuary could use an extra fireplace, after all; the chill of the underground could be so unbearable sometimes.

* * *

I find myself quickly regretting my decision. The thrill of this hunt is two-sided, I think, as I climb silently up the rock face. On the one hand, this sort of killing is not illegal and therefore does not necessarily have to be stealthy… on the other, these opponents are familiar with killing as well, and may very kill me first if I don't take care. The bodies of two witches lay below me. One took a black arrow through the eye, the other through the side of the head. All Dark Brothers and Sisters must be decent marksmen, regardless of preference or specialty: this sort of kill is always quick and quiet.

I climb to the peak and, slowly, raise my head over the ledge to survey the challenge before me. There are two more witches nearer to me, performing some kind of ritual. The Hagraven is a little further away; it appears to be in some kind of meditative state, for it does not move.

Oh, I should _not_ have come here alone, I think, as I feel a thrill tingle down my spine. I will not deny that I am energized by the sense of danger… but at the same time, I'm not yet ready to let anyone have the honor of killing me. I continue my survey. The surface of the rock is rather uneven and there are several points at which I can shield myself from their magic. Obviously, the biggest threat is the Hagraven. If I could just remove the two underlings without alerting the creature… But I am not so skilled a marksman as, say, Nazir. He fires arrows with blinding speed. The two witches below were just the result of good fortune, and I am not willing to test that again…

My thoughts continue to circle in this manner until I must force myself to stop. I want to slap myself. For goodness' sake, I am the _Listener_! The head of the Family of the Dark Brotherhood! And yet here I am, cowering from a few lowly mages and their pet hag! I chide myself. This behavior is simply unacceptable.

I take in a generous gulp of air. I'll spring up and burn them all right into the Void! For a moment I let the thrill take me over, and then I let it go. I find that cold and empty place in my mind. It is the one to which I always retreat when I am preparing to kill. I take firm hold of the ledge, and without another thought, I spring up and conjure the biggest, hottest, deadliest wall of fire I can muster.

The two witches, who had been standing close together, burn immediately. The Hagraven, alerted and furious, blasts fire of such magnitude in my direction that I can not dodge it. I counter it with a fire of my own; I must do this with the several blasts speeding in my direction like great burning arrows. This monster's magical prowess is great, and it is terrifying, and I am somehow thrilled by it. The thrill breaks through my cold and empty place like a flood. This is nothing like fighting men; I do not fear men. But I fear this monster. Finally, in the midst of this deadly battle, I understand why men call such exploits _glory_. I am not trying to conquer a creature. I am trying to conquer my own fear.

My wild laughter in response to this realization would, I believe, make even Cicero proud.

* * *

_22 Evening Star, 4E201_

Nettlebane in hand, I stand before the Eldergleam. Even I must stop for a moment, however, to admire the beauty of the garden surrounding this magnificent and ancient tree. I have become so accustomed to living with death that the abundance of life in this place momentarily stuns me. Every measure of this place is thriving, growing, and crawling.

"Isn't it magnificent?" I hear the pilgrim say behind me. I had run in to him by the entrance to the tree's sanctuary, and now I can not get rid of him. If I were not in the sanctuary of a goddess, I swear I would end the wretch here and now. I ignore him, and instead raise Nettlebane to hack away at the roots blocking my path to the main part of the tree. "_What are you doing?_" he says with alarm upon seeing my enchanted blade.

"I need the sap," I say with nonchalance. I imagine plunging this dagger into him first and then dealing with the tree, but I continue on with my original task. The roots move quickly out of my way, much to the pilgrim's horror, and I am at the base of the trunk in short order.

Wordlessly I lift the blade; just have to pierce the tree and give it a twist. "Please, please wait!" This man is annoying in the way that a hangnail is annoying. _I could clip him… I could slice him… I could cut him…_ "You would violate this marvel of Kynareth's glory to fix that half-breed stump in Whiterun?" His voice is a tone of admonishment, like a parent to a child… or a religious man to a heathen. _I could burn him… turn him to ash…_

I am doing my absolute best to keep my patience in check. I commonly have to strangle fools like him_… or flay them, or burn them alive, or poison them… _"Then what, pray tell, _what_ would you suggest?" I've come too far. Here I am, I'm being the bedamned adventurer. I just faced down that awful monster when I did not have to. I am _not_ leaving here without what I came for.

He seems somewhat mollified. He says, "Follow me. I think I can convince the tree to help us." He goes and kneels down before the tree, then dips his forehead until it touches the ground in prayer. A small, beautiful burst of light springs forth from the branches of the tree and lands before us, taking the form of a sapling. "The Eldergleam has blessed us," says the annoying little man, "You should take the sapling to Whiterun. Danica will want to see that the true blessings of nature are in renewal, not a slavish maintenance."

I pick up the little twig. Its parent tree even put it in a clay pot for me, and I think, how peculiar. This world can be so very, very strange. Although it isn't quite what I've come here for I can nonetheless acknowledge that, at least, everyone gets something positive out of this method… Ah. I feel exhaustion like a pinching headache between my eyes.

* * *

_24 Evening Star, 4E201_

The familiar stone walls of the Temple of Kynareth surround me once more. I watch as Danica performs her ministrations, both to her patients and to the sapling. In the end, she was pleased, although it had taken some convincing. I am loathe to admit that the little pilgrim man had a point.

The death of one will make for the birth of another. It is a common lesson, however true.

I have been given room and board here for the night. I am tired from travel, and from battle. I hope that the Night Mother will not take offense. I rest in my familiar corner. The statue of the goddess Kynareth seems joyful as it gazes down upon the sapling before it. I still find myself questioning how in the world the tree had conjured it in a clay pot.

My good deed is done, my supposed debt of honor repaid. Tomorrow I will return to Dawnstar and my Family, and adventuring such as this shall no longer be a concern of mine.

Such are my thoughts until a distant, blood-curdling roar sounds over Whiterun.


	3. Dragon Rising

**Chapter 3: Dragon Rising**

_24 Evening Star, 4E201_

That cold feeling drips back down into my blood. It is that same one that I felt in Helgen; it is the one that returns to haunt my dreams much too frequently, accompanied by such powerful, such terrible chanting. _Dovahkiin_, _Dovahkiin_, I hear over and over again in my sleep, _Dovahkiin_, _Dovahkiin_.

My mouth is dry. I feel a pull. It tugs on me like some horrible thread of a willfully forgotten fate.

Some nameless, faceless guard rushes into the temple. He calls for Danica, and after an energized and rushed conversation, the two are out the doors in short order. I rise and follow them. My legs seem to act without my having ordered them to. From my position on the hill, I can see a brightness in the distance. It is a great fire. Even from afar, I can see that it burns clearly and furiously and with an intensity as if willed by the hand of a god. I feel the thrill of that dire red thread. I feel its spirit bind my quaking hands.

"Mage," the same nameless guard - or perhaps another, I am not certain - calls out as he approaches, "by order of the Jarl, all able-bodied men and women must report immediately to Dragonsreach." His tone is formal and it is final. He jogs away quickly thereafter, likely seeking further aid from the other townspeople. I am otherwise ignored amidst the chaos which has suddenly awoken in each city district.

I inhale deeply, smelling the fumes of impending battle. Obviously, I could not simply escape from the front gate. I cross my arms and retreat into the shadows to think. I could scale the wall. I have, of course, been forced to do such a thing in the past. I survey my surroundings quickly. I need rope and a hook. Men and women of various races mill about in a flurry of near-panicked activity. They carry various implements of war: swords, bows, axes, maces… I spy a length of rope by one of the market stalls. Darting quickly, I weave about the river of people as a fish through water and snatch my prize.

Rope in hand, now I must find a hook. My sense of urgency leaves me near to breaking. I rise from my crouch and spin about, only to be met with the disapproving green glare I had, I will admit, thought of from time to time. "Imperial," oh that voice, that haughty, feminine voice, "by order of the Jarl-" A deep and horrible boom of a roar cuts her off. I feel the palpitation of my heart, the onset of hyperventilation, the quake, the distinct tingling in my nose and cheeks…

The guard is momentarily stunned. I can not find my cold and quiet place. I know only that I must escape and that the beautiful, green-eyed guard should not see what must be the very disturbed expression upon my face. I must escape. I must run. I throw the rope to the ground, and with it, any higher sense of caution. I bolt for the main gate. I will run all night if I must; I can make it as far as Windhelm, surely, or - fates bedamned! - as far as my native Cyrodiil herself! They will chase me and I will outpace them. I flee with the speed of a bird on wing… _or a dragon_…

"Wait!" The guard shouts from behind me, "Imperial!" No, no, don't follow me. Not with that same fury in your voice, you lowly woman. I scramble out of the gate, ignoring the nearby guards commanding me to halt. One nearly manages to grab me by the scruff of my collar but I am outside and running with the speed of a hunted deer before he is able. My blood beats in my ears and in my hands, crackling now with a panicked fire. The thrill is so strong, so pervasive that I can not stop the magic as it bursts from my skin. I must run, I must run. The tightness of my throat is nothing against the force of my furious and quick and shallow breaths.

The roar resounds and pierces me once more and the ground shakes and the monstrous fire lights up the sky above, bright as the sun. "Imperial!" The guard is behind me, the dragon above.

_Dovahkiin!_ Its voice is terrible, terrible. I run ever faster. A tempest from its wings throws me to the ground, no more than a child's toy. I land hard on my back. I look up and there it is. My fate. The great and fiery roaring end to this miserable, traitorous mage. It rears its head back. I too will be burned, and I think, how fitting. Before my eyes I see a flash of blond hair, black eyes, burnt flesh…

The great beast cries out as an arrow buries into its neck. "You die this day, dragon!" Her again. She knocks another arrow in her meager bow, so completely bound to her duty, so very fearless in the face of death. Such a great white knight, she is. The dragon turns to her as she fires again. Its scorching breath misses her as she rolls to avoid it.

My magic crackles. Elements burst to and fro about my hands and arms. She fights on, ignoring me, protecting me, her city, her people. I feel the force of the tundra as ice accumulates on my fingertips. I could run. I could sacrifice this woman and make my escape. The black-haired guard. The white knight. How many of her comrades have fallen on my blade, on my arrows, my fires? Now unknowingly she protects even a killer, a murderer, an assassin of the highest order. I stand, feeling the frost now even in my bones.

_If the creature is composed of fire_, my old Breton master in Cyrodiil said, a lifetime ago, _freeze it_. It is a fundamental lesson.

I feel Astrid at my shoulder, her distaste palpable, _You coward_.

A battlecry thunders from the mouth of the guard. Tireless. Fearless.

I draw the magic from my deepest fibers, weaving my hands and fingers slowly in a prescribed pattern. The power of ice rushes with full fury to my hands. I aim, and fire. The beast cries out and crashes to the ground when my ice spike pierces its wing.

I fire again, drawing upon the force of my blood, my breath, the enchantments on my unmarked robes. Ice pierces the armor of its side as it lashes out at me with its great talons, missing me only by a hair. I must dodge its fire and its claws, rolling, ducking. Eventually a talon does cut through my forearm, sharp as a blade. Then, a slice across my ribs. My blood flows in a river. I fall. The thrill grips me. This is man nor Hagraven. Very likely, I think, I am going to die.

The guard, sword drawn, leaps upon its scaled back, driving her weapon through again and again. She is a true Nord, a battle song pealing from her lips. It shakes her off and she lands with some small measure of grace before the dragon's tail swats her back a short distance. It brings up a great claw, ready to crush her like an insect.

Filled with sudden desperation, I sap my last reserves of strength, and fire. As my vision fades I hear a great, howling roar before I hear an odd crackling, and detect the smell of burning flesh. _The guard_. It burned her. I could not protect her after all. Then my hearing fades. Just before the world falls away I feel a rush of sorts, which, truly, I cold never better describe than as some immediate and final coldness, or as if I have just walked through the etherial form of a ghost. A voice, deep, rumbling, speaks to me from within my mind: _Fus_.

* * *

_26 Evening Star, 4E201_

Miraculously, somehow, I am alive. Although my eyes are closed, although I can not move, I know I am alive because I am in pain. Only the living feel physical pain, surely.

Then again, I could be in Oblivion among the souls of the wicked. That would certainly not surprise me either.

But I am in a bed, of that I am sure. It is soft. I wiggle my fingers as wakefulness comes to them. It is of expensive materials: silk, fur. My arm hurts terribly. There is a tightness about my ribs. Bandages.

"Awaken, Adventurer." The voice is familiar, and shortly I recognize it as Danica's. "I know you can hear me, Adventurer. I can see your stirring about." I open my eyes and am met by low light; that, I think, was considerate of her. Her face is kind, her posture relaxed, as she sits beside my bed. "Welcome back," her voice is both gentle and tinged ever so slightly by irony, "would you like a cup of water?"

I nod. "How long…?" I manage to rasp as she hands me a cup from a nearby table.

"About a day-and-a-half, or so." She helps me to sit up and sip from the cup. I hold it in my left hand and she braces my grip. I can move my damaged right arm, although I would admittedly prefer not to. "You needed the rest, and you will be needing much more. You have lost a great deal of blood. If the Captain had not managed to stem the flow, as she did, you would have died."

"The Captain?"

"She who aided you in battle. Do you not remember your own friend? I heard that the two of you rushed out alone to face the beast. Adventurer, I admit this to you out of kindness: You and she are either both very brave, or very, very foolish." She pauses, then says: "Nevertheless… you must both have very great trust in one another to have done such a thing." She looks distant for a moment, a half-smile on her face.

A friend! Such a jest! Then I am struck by a sobering thought: did she not die by the dragon's fire? I smelled the burnt flesh myself! "Danica-"

The doors opens. Irileth, the housecarl of Jarl Balgruuf, enters. "Ah, Dragonborn, you are awake."

My thoughts meet an abrupt halt. _Dragonborn?_

My face must be frozen in either horror or bewilderment, because Danica lays a hand softly upon my arm. "When you killed the dragon by your magic, you absorbed its soul. The Captain saw it, as did all the guards watching from the battlements and those rushing to your aid." She pauses momentarily, then looks me directly in the eye. "It is an honor… Dragonborn."

Ah, that red thread. I was justified in feeling it, then. I was then, I am now. I close my eyes momentarily. My ribs hurt. My arm hurts. I'm tired. Perhaps my exhaustion is why I am not crying and screaming in response to this wonderfully ironic twist of fate. I almost want to laugh. I am the villain turned heroine. Yes. Send me, the Listener, the Dragonborn, _Dovahkiin_ - yes, that is the meaning of this tortuous word resounding constantly in my head - to risk life and limb to solve all your god-damned problems. Yes.

Irileth clears her throat. "Are you able to walk, Dragonborn? The Jarl wishes to speak with you as soon as possible."

"She needs time yet, Irileth." Danica's voice is a balm. "Sleep a little longer, Dragonborn. I will tend to your wounds as you do." She places her hand behind my back and helps me to lay back down. My exhaustion rises back up quickly, and sleep takes me far away once more.

* * *

_30 Evening Star, 4E201_

The black-haired guard leans against the wall. So, she is also Captain of the Guard. This must be a recent development since I did not previously know about it; my profession requires, after all, a thorough knowledge of a city and its elite guards. Curiously, however, she never wears any specialized armor.

Her gaze is intense and unwavering. She makes no expression otherwise as she studies me. I sit in my fine bed, feeling much, much better than in the days before. Today, my visitor and savior wears civilian clothing: trousers and a tunic and deerskin boots. She dresses like a man, though a man could never make such simple clothing so striking.

We stare at one another. We are now sisters of some great exclusive victory… or something like that… I am fond of Nords even if I do not entirely understand them.

She opens her mouth, takes in air to speak, then releases it again, closing her lips. This is the first time she's come to visit me. I had half-expected, after I found out that she still lived, that she would not come here. She must certainly resent me to some degree, after all. She rallies herself once more. "It is… an honor… Dragonborn."

Ah, of course. She resorts to formalities when in doubt. Nonetheless, I cringe inwardly at the name. My person is, however, composed. "And a pleasure, Captain." I wonder if she remembers me from that night below the Gildergreen: the haughty, disrespectful Imperial woman bold enough to test her steely nerves. I would presume it so. "And another pleasure to see you, for once, out of uniform and eye-to-eye with the common woman."

I indulge in her resulting blush, the lowering of her eyes. "You are not… a common woman, Dragonborn." So, dear Captain, you are strong in the face of any deadly foe, but you blush when faced with another woman? An indulgence indeed, and certainly a welcome diversion from the current situation. "… Not now, anyway." The Captain of the Guard clears her throat and then looks directly at me. "Dragonborn," she pushes herself off the wall and approaches my bedside with a slight caution, "I don't know what your intentions that night were - whether to flee the dragon or to take it away from the city and fight it alone - and I don't wish to know. But in the end you defeated the dragon with valor, and I'm honored to have seen what I saw." She clears her throat again and thrusts out her hand. "I want to introduce myself properly. My name-"

"Dragonborn!" Irileth enters, her expression somewhat cross. "The Jarl grows impatient. These times are pressing. I know that you are not completely well after only a few days of treatment, but you _must_ go speak with the Jarl. The Captain will assist you with walking if it is necessary."

The Captain retracts her hand, her expression the height of seriousness. But then she holds it out again, palm up. "Please… allow me to assist you." I rise and, leaning upon her arm, I am led to the throne room. Her arm is strong and sturdy. I am close enough to detect her scent, and it is intriguing: not quite like soap, more like what ice smells like, or perhaps the pines of the tundra. She is balanced and walking with an assuredness of step found only in a truly fine warrior: not terribly quiet, so, bad for stealth, but also with great power so as to help keep her in battle. She is the type who makes for both an excellent fighter and an excellent mother… I smirk a little at the thought and the strange pathways down which my mind must be turning.

There are other people in the throne room seeking the Jarl's attention, but as soon as I enter, they defer to me immediately. The Captain holds fast to me.

"Dragonborn," the Jarl Balgruuf greets me, "I am glad to see you on your feet. You must give me a full report of what befell you."

Jarls. I have never liked them; I've even killed a few! Look at this man. He has no idea of to whom he is speaking. Yes, Balgruuf, the Listener herself! I have killed men in your very home and right under your nose. Perhaps one day these hands shall bring even _your_ death. I do my best to reign in my sarcasm, reminded of my place, as it were, by the feeling of the Captain's arm holding me relatively upright, and I relate to him what had happened.

"So… you really are Dragonborn, then." He strokes his bearded chin. "The Greybeards summoned you a few days ago - you slept right through it. Danica Pure-Spring has been adamant that you need rest."

"The Greybeards?" I ask, revealing finally the extent of my knowledge about Nordic culture. It had been a stretch that I knew anything at all about the Dragonborn: it was merely from a chance reading of an older text.

"Masters of the Way of the Voice." Balgruuf replies, "They live in seclusion on the slopes of the Throat of the World."

Yes! Of course! Climb to the top of the highest mountain in Tamriel and speak with a bunch of rotting old sages to learn of some prophecy of something-or-other. Yes. "And what do they want?"

"The Dragonborn is said to be uniquely gifted in the Voice - the ability to focus your vital essence into a Thu'um, or Shout. If you really are Dragonborn, they can teach you how to use your gift."

Ah, my mistake! Climb the highest mountain to learn the _secret magic power_ from the rotting old sages. "Uh… huh." It couldn't be helpful to them, then, that I'm planning on escaping this place as soon as I am able…

"There is one more thing, Dragonborn." He says with a tone of formality. "You have done an incredible service to Whiterun, and for that, this city is ever in your debt. I wish to bestow upon you the highest honor than I am able. I hereby name you Thane of Whiterun," he reaches down next to his throne and picks up an enchanted axe, offering it to me. "Please accept this from my personal armory as your badge of office." Numbly, I reach out to take it. It is heavy, and I nearly drop it before the Captain takes it from my hand; I have never been one much for heavy weapons. Balgruuf strokes his beard once more. "You will also need a housecarl…" He looks to the Captain, "Lydia, I am assigning you to the service of the Dragonborn. I know your potential is greater than what is necessary for your position now. Serve her well, and bring honor to our Hold."

We look at each other. She is tall, taller than me. She looks down at me with those green eyes of hers, "Ah… honor to you… my Thane."

Lydia. Her name is Lydia.

* * *

_31 Evening Star, 4E201_

_Listener_… Mother's voice. In an instant I feel emotional, like a lost child. _Listener_…

I awaken. The room is quiet and so is my mind. I wonder if I had only dreamed of hearing her voice. Outside, the early morning burns brightly over the new fallen snow. It is a last lovely sunrise for the last day of the year. I sigh inwardly, knowing that I will not be able to spend it in the Sanctuary.

Lydia stirs from the other side of the room. She had insisted upon setting herself up there, in the corner, and lies upon a pile of furs. Honor-bound, stiff-backed Lydia. The real problem here is what I am actually going to do with her. Bringing her back to the Sanctuary is out of the question, much less telling her of my true identity. I am almost certain that her pride could not withstand being bodyguard to a murderer. That means that I would have to leave her behind… and not tell her where I'm going, and likely not quite ever come back, and possibly get arrested for murder at some point… in which chase she would find out anyway…

My mind turns round and round much in this way as Lydia rises. She goes into the side room, washes herself using the basin there, and cleans her teeth. I numbly watch her go about her apparent routine. "I bid you a good morning, my Thane," she says as she finishes.

"Good morning." I feel a strange sadness looking at her. Is she to serve me? I have a whole organization of assassins to serve me. This thought rails against the sadness, protesting it, causing me to question it. Why do I feel so… forlorn? I must return to the Sanctuary. I must speak with Mother and the others. I must leave her behind.

I look at her, and she looks at me. "If I may ask, my Thane…" she pauses, hesitant, unsure as to what boundaries exactly lie between us, I think, "… if you would permit me, I would like to know… I have only ever heard your titles… what is your real name, my Thane?" Her expression, so earnest, cuts me further. I face now, I realize, neither man, nor beast, nor Hagraven, nor dragon; no, this is much, much more formidable: I face a woman.

"My name…" I want to laugh. No one in Skyrim has ever asked. I have been called Prisoner, Imperial, Sister, Assassin, Coward, Mage, Listener, Dragonborn, and of course the ever-ready 'You' and 'You-There'. But my name? The name of my mother, and hers? "My name, Lydia, is Amara Leone Aestus, of the original Aestus bloodline of Cyrodiil. Do you know of it?" This speech feels so strange. My name sounds strange on my own lips.

"Aestus… yes. You are descended from the Champion of Cyrodiil. The great destruction mage himself, Aestus the Fire Hand."

"The very same." I feel like I am sharing some naughty little secret.

Lydia looks at me now with… well, an incalculable expression. Something positive, or at least I hope. "I am… I am doubly honored, my Thane, Lady Aestus-"

"Please don't use that name." I cut her off, disliking its sound. I have not necessarily cast off that name, but for me it has always seemed to carry with it that unwanted sense of duty, or of destiny.

Her back stiffens, her eyes cast down in deference. "My Thane."

I look at her a moment, with this expression, this posture, this sudden outward submission to myself. My memories play on the image of the haughty guard, bound to the honor of serving her city and therefore by looking down at me, the loafer that I was. I decide that I do not like this new image, this submissive servant, before me. I can see that, outside of her tireless commitment to her personal honor, it is against her nature to submit. I can hear it in the awkward way in which she speaks to me, as if she is trying to contain herself.

I rise from the bed and approach her. Already in my life there are too many worms for me to step on, too many downcast eyes for me to command. This woman does not actually fear me, not like that. Even I, perpetually in my own special place in Hell, wish to appreciate fully the beauty of that. Even from the fires. "Lydia," I say as I slowly and gently reach up to raise her chin, causing her eyes to meet with mine. I hear a small, quick intake of breath from her at the contact. "Please look into my eyes when you speak with me, and please call me Amara."

Those green eyes are wide. "Yes…" she breathes, "as you wish… Amara."


	4. Erik the Slayer

**Chapter 4: Erik the Slayer**

_Author's Note: I've received a few PMs questioning my use of italics throughout the story. Just to clear that up: I am aware that italics are usually used to denote a character's thoughts or are for some kind of emphasis. However, when I use italics in this story, they almost always mean emphasis. They don't denote Amara's thoughts because, as the story is already being told in the first person, technically everything you're reading counts as her thoughts. That's why I don't use italics for her inner monologues. I hope that helps. :)_

* * *

_2 Morning Star, 4E202_

I feel quite well now. The dragon's attack has left me with no more than a smattering of scars; these, I admit to myself ruefully, seem to be part and parcel of leading a life in this harsh and desolate land. I stand stark naked before a looking glass in the Jarl's well-appointed bathing room. The sop sleeps peacefully in his bed in the other room, completely unaware of my having picked the lock to help myself to a few of his luxuries.

I would have made a fine thief, I think, as I study my form under the small magelight I had cast. The shadows hide me as if I were their own beloved and locks invariably fall open for me, ever willing to allow me to share in the secrets they keep… Quite like the fine furs strewn about this lavish room - I grin - and quite like the many gold pieces found lying about, completely forgotten by their spoiled and foppish owner. Quite like this wonderful mirror which, if I only had the gift of anonymity and perhaps Cicero to carry it, I would steal rather quickly. Much to the luck of Balgruuf, however, I have neither of these aids at the moment.

I _can_ help myself to these fine soaps, however. I clothe myself and gather a few from the cupboard under the washbasin. The servants will find a few - though not all - in a barrel in the kitchen shortly after I've left.

Returning to my room, I spy Lydia fast asleep in her self-appointed corner. Throughout the evening I could rather easily tell that she is upset with me: she did not take well to my announcement that I am going to part from her. But she can not, under any circumstance, accompany me to where I am going. Not to my Sanctuary.

I lean out the door and call a sleepy servant, telling her to prepare a bath for me. I can not help but to be wide awake: finally, after all this wretched time, a Dark Brotherhood courier found me in the night and delivered to me several rather important pieces of correspondence. I sorely yearn to return to my Family and my place at its head, however well my trustworthy Nazir has been faring.

Darker thoughts come to me quickly, however, as two bleary-eyed servants come and fill the tub with steaming water: this whole business with the dragons and my own recent involvement.

When finally left alone, I take my pilfered soaps from my satchel and disrobe, stepping slowly into my bath. It has been _demanded_, apparently, that I travel to the peak of the Throat of the World in order to learn the Way of the Voice… or something like that. I allow my body to relax, relishing the heat. The red thread tugs at me from somewhere deep in myself. So I am Dragonborn. So it is upon my shoulders to be the killer of dragons, to eat their souls and from this, to learn their tongue. _So what?_ The thought surfaces. I lived quite well enough without it before, so why should I go to such pains to obtain it now?

I sink deeper into the water and, through an adjacent window, I watch the sun as it begins to rise. Of course, the awakening of the dragons and my own "awakening" - for lack of a better word - can not only be coincidental. No - the gods, the Elder Scrolls, destiny, what have you - these things never work in such a mundane fashion, as history teaches us again and again. Regardless, if the dragons will come, then they will come. Just as it is their destiny to toss mortal lives into the Void, so it is mine. I briefly submerge my whole head. People are so afraid of death… and yet they know that, one day, it will inevitably come for them. It will come for me as well.

And then I feel a twinge at the realization of my own hypocrisy.

Coming up for air, I hear a small stirring from within the sleeping chamber. "Amara?" Lydia's voice calls out softly, tinged ever so slightly by sleep. She must be something of a heavy sleeper, I think, to have remained so while the servants were in here and banging about not moments ago. I find myself smiling: so much for being a diligent housecarl.

"I am in the washroom." I reply, "You may enter."

She does, opening the door gently. Upon seeing my present state of undress, however, she gasps quietly and lowers her eyes. "My Thane! You did not have to-"

"Amara."

"Amara," her blush is apparent, "you did not have to allow me to enter the room if you're…" She trails off, eyes fastened quite securely to the floor. "I wanted to talk to you but it's not so urgent that… well…"

Oh modest Nords! I smirk in spite of my brooding. "Does my nudity offend you, Lydia?" The poor woman; if her blush grows any stronger I fear the blood may begin to leak from her ears. "Am I truly so offensive to behold?" I tease.

"No! No, no. Ah… my Thane, Amara, you are… you are, of course, if you will permit, ah…" she clears her throat, according to her apparent habit, "beautiful." She folds her hands behind her back, gathering herself into a soldier's stance.

I let a few moments pass in silence between us as I cast a fire spell to further heat my bathwater which, curiously, feels a bit too cool. Lydia remains stock-still. Although goading her seems to be one of the few things which uphold my mood during this deplorable convalescence, I choose to put it aside for the moment. Gently, so as to release her from her turmoil, I say, "What is it that you wanted to discuss?"

"Amara," she steels herself and raises her eyes to look directly into mine, "I want to accompany you. The journey doesn't matter, nor the destination, nor the mission. I am your sword and your shield. Please allow me to perform my duties."

Ah, the green-eyed guard and her honor. I sit up and begin to wash. Lydia has apparently found her strength, for her countenance does not waver even as I perform these rather intimate actions. There she is, the Captain who I had so sorely missed. "I have already given you my decision, Lydia."

Such displeasure! She makes it apparent upon her face. There are two kinds of Nords, I decide, as I wash my hair: those who strive to void themselves of emotion and all that it entails, and those who burst with emotion, allowing it to be written in the distinctive expressions upon their faces. I do believe that my housecarl takes after the latter. "But my Thane-"

"Amara."

"Amara, please reconsider. My duty to you is sacred-"

"Remind me, Lydia, of these duties?" I cut in.

"I am your sword and shield. It is my duty to protect you, and all that you own, with my life. I am sworn to… carry your burdens; they can be either physical or emotional. I serve you to protect your honor as well as my own. I am to serve you by following your orders…" she notices the apparent trap, "… without question." Though her eyes are still diligently looking into my own - for as long as my current activity will allow me to return her look - her head dips ever so slightly, revealing her frustration. Even from the small distance between us I can see the burning in those lovely green eyes.

Go on, Lydia, a small part of me wishes to say, to provoke her: fight me. No one defies me, Lydia, no one dares. I am the day's most accomplished assassin, a killer of emperors! It has been so long since my orders have been questioned that I find it almost refreshing - invited, even!

"Without question," I repeat. I dip my hair under the water and wash out the soap.

"Then allow me to make a statement," she fires back. Yes, I do like this woman. She is honor-bound, stiff-backed, modest and noisy, but also, it seems, clever. She is brave, too. Many in her place would have died already; although, of course, she is rather unaware of this fact. "You're the Dragonborn. You've been chosen by Akatosh to defend mortalkind from the dragons. It is a task fit for a god, and although you have been touched by a god, you're still mortal. You should not have to shoulder this alone. Yes, I've seen your abilities in battle - and you're powerful, very powerful - but you're mortal. Should you fall, who would protect you? Well I've done it once, and I will do it again. I believe in your strength, Amara, and in your honor, because I've seen both for myself…"

She pauses a moment, then continues: "I admit, I remembered you, on that night… you were that woman from under the Gildergreen…" she shakes her head, "If only I had known of to whom I was speaking…"

"Stop." Yes, if only she knew! If only! She sees the persona held aloft by a fractured and blackened soul with the misfortune of having a great hero as an ancestor. She sees the persona that bumbled into Whiterun, like an idiot, with a magic stick in a stupid impossible clay pot for a god-damned priestess. She sees the persona that turned in its terror and faced the dragon simply to keep _her_ from dying immediately- That particular thought halts me. _I acted to protect her from death._ I look at her, she with her eyes to the floor, chided. _I kept her from the Void_.

An image of blond hair, of dark eyes, flashes briefly before the eye of my mind. I can hear her from somewhere in the Void, and she is laughing at me. I feel it, the pain, the sudden prickling in my palms. I rise from my bath and use a nearby piece of cloth to dry myself. "Fine," I say finally, refusing to look at her even as her eyes lower as well, "but on the condition that, hereafter, you follow my orders to the letter. If I tell you to stay in one place, you will stay. You will not follow me until I return for you. Am I _very_ clear, Lydia?"

"Ah-" I kill off any argument with a glare. This conversation is finished. "Yes, Amara."

"Then you're dismissed."

* * *

_3 Morning Star, 4E202_

The gates of Whiterun close behind us and the road stretches on ahead. As I prepare Shadowmere's saddle, it comes to my attention that Lydia is simply standing nearby, idle, and with a most indecisive expression upon her face. I ask: "Have you no horse?"

He expression darkens. "No, Amara."

"Mhmm," I lowly hum to myself, more than to her, as I look about for the stablemaster. The man, Skulvar Sable-Hilt is his name, never seems to be nearby when Shadowmere occupies his stables. After the first time in which I boarded him here, months ago, Skulvar has avoided my horse - and, therefore, me - religiously. I believe that it has something to do with Shadowmere's eyes - they can be somewhat unsettling to the uninitiated. I notice finally that the man in question is watching me from his window, and I motion for him to approach.

He does so after an obvious hesitation, "Somethin' I can help with, ma'am?" His eyes stray inadvertently to Shadowmere.

"I would like to purchase a horse."

He lightens almost immediately. "You're seekin' a horse born under the light of the Divines?" He smiles and shakes my hands, "Bless you!" He lets go but his enthusiasm does not cease. "This land has no place for foul beasts and dark demons - we honest folk have enough troubles out here. Banish them, I say. Let them wallow in all their bedamned planes of Oblivion. Up here we folk need nothin' but the grace of the good Divines. Bless you, I say. Bless you."

He inhales, intending to say more, but is stopped by Shadowmere's audible snort and, I think, the bewildered expression upon my face. I say: "Pardon?"

Lydia clears her throat. "It's for me, Skulvar."

Finally, it seems, he notices my housecarl standing off to the side. "C-Captain Lydia?" With his eyes, he momentarily glances back and forth between us. "You know the woman with the demon horse?"

Another snort from Shadowmere. I look at him. Haughty thing, I nearly laugh to myself, you _are_ a demon horse. Lydia seems to bristle as well, somewhat. "This is the Dragonborn, Skulvar, and the Thane of Whiterun. I've been appointed as her housecarl. Will you sell to us, or not?" Ah, and it would seem that my companions are of a somewhat kindred spirit!

I begin to write out a note of credit. "The usual price is 1000 septims, is it not?"

"Hey, wait a minute!" He stops me. "With all due respect, Thane, I cannot allow one of my horses to possibly be infected by that demon under your saddle. They're too dear to me! I raised them myself, from when they were newly born, helpless foals-"

"Take this to the banker in Dragonsreach," I cut him off as I hand the note to him, "I think 2000 gold pieces will change your mind."

He holds the paper in his hands as if it were heavier than its actual weight. After a pause, he says: "Very well. No one… no one can argue with that much money."

"Right," and I turn from him to watch Lydia as she chooses her horse: a sable-colored mare of good age and health. She saddles it and soon enough - though still too long, given my growing impatience - we are off.

I am being monumentally foolish, I think, as I allow silence to reign semi-comfortably between us. We strike out west, following the road. She is surely aware that the Throat of the World lies in the opposite direction. I bite the inside of my lip. What am I to do with her once we reach Dawnstar? Or worse, if she begins asking too many questions? Already I can not, within this arrangement, stay for any prolonged amount of time in the Sanctuary. If my assessment of Lydia's character is correct - and I am quite sure that it is - she will inevitably come looking for me.

What to do? I steal a glance in her direction. She sits upon her horse, relaxed and regal, eyes forward. I could change my mind; it is not too late. I could turn to her and order her to return to Whiterun. _Even after I just went to all that trouble?_ My eyes trace the patterns in her armor, recently polished, as they gleam in the light of the morning sun.

I could kill her. Once she and I reach the true wilderness, I could end her life swiftly and painlessly. I could then set her horse loose and let it run off. I could blame it on bandits.

A wooden smoking pipe swings from her belt. Really, truly, she walks, talks, dresses and acts like a man. And behold how she follows me, how she does not ask me why we are heading in the wrong direction. Cunning woman. She has known all along that I have next-to-no intention of ever going to High Hrothgar, as Balgruuf named it, despite my having told him that I would go there immediately. Eventually she notices my observing her and furtively returns my glance, a small smirk gracing her lips. She seems to be relishing her victory in her own small way.

I kick my horse into a gallop and she follows suit. My indecision pokes at me still, but I place it aside for the time being.

* * *

It is growing dusky by the time we reach Rorikstead. As the buildings of the town rise before us in the distance, we come to the mutual decision that it would be best for us to spend the night there.

Fate, however, proves capricious as ever.

An armed man approaches us a little ways off from our destination. He stands in the middle of the road, his heavy steel armor glinting in the light of dusk. He has a greatsword at his back and a bow in hand, drawn and taut, with an arrow aimed directly at my chest. He shouts for us to halt.

I rein in my horse a short distance form him and Lydia follows suit. He says, "Good evening ladies. Let's keep this quick and simple, shall we? You're both surrounded. Give us all your valuables and you'll make it out of this alive."

Oh my. I look over to my seething companion. Her hand is splayed over the sword at her side. I turn back toward the bandit. "Sir," I say evenly, "if you do not promptly remove yourself from my presence, I can assure you that your imminent death will be neither speedy, nor painless." Ah, warrior men. How many have I killed in my career? The thrill returns to me, but it is different. It is always different when I fight my fellow men, for they do not awaken fear in me.

I raise my hand and the magical fire prickles on my skin. He looks furious. "Boys! These girlies won't cooperate!" Four more appear from behind surrounding rocks and foliage, their various weapons drawn. The armored man, apparently their leader, fires at me. I hold out my hand and the arrow burns into ashes well before it reaches me.

Lydia springs off her horse with the force of the four winds, her sword and shield in hand. She charges at our assailants like a wild bull, a battlecry on her lips, and in an instant she decapitates one, then plunges her sword into the belly of another. I am almost content simply to watch her in her bloody glory, but necessity demands that I promptly defend myself from the enraged leader who springs upon me, his greatsword swinging wildly.

I burn him; there can be for him no more fitting an end. The crust of his flesh falls to the dirt in a limp crunch. I feel no pity. Lydia's battle song fills my ears as together we face the rest of them, our motions fluid and natural, my fires fitting to her steel like the finest interlocking creations of the forge. The spatters of blood staining her skin lend to her a fierceness which I, a harbinger of death in my own right, can only poeticize. Her sword, bright and slickened with the lives of these men, plunges sharply into the last of them and I hear his final, gurgling breath as he falls. She roughly puts a steel-shod foot on his chest and uses it as leverage to rip her blade back out, then she cleans it on his clothes. She stands tall and regards me upon finishing this task and does not bother to smear the blood from her face. I admit, the sight is grotesquely attractive. "Are you alright, Amara?"

"Yes," I reply simply, and look toward the direction of Rorikstead, noting the sinking sun. Turning back, I am relieved to see that both Shadowmere and Lydia's horse are unscathed. I approach my horse and remove a small towel from one of the bags on his saddle. Unlike my stoic companion, I cannot comfortably ignore the filth now covering my hair, face, and clothes. She seems to notice, although she says nothing, and soon we are off once more.

"I have ah… not often seen a mage in true man-to-man combat before," she breaks the silence as we ride, "… only once, and she was powerful." Surely she notices my cold sweat, although I hope not. I know what she is referring to, and I thank Sithis once more, silently, for my having escaped with my anonymity. She hesitates for a moment. It seems, or so I would speculate, that she has just pushed herself into a difficult subject. It occurs to me, finally, that she must have been deeply affected by that incident; perhaps it was that incident which let to her appointment as Captain of the Guard. Perhaps Cicero and I killed the last Captain. "You are," she continues after a beat, "also truly very powerful." We are finally closing in on Rorikstead. "Are you a master?"

_Were they friends? _"Yes." My voice is inadvertently harsh and short.

* * *

_4 Morning Star, 4E202_

The bed, I admit, is not as uncomfortable or foul as I had thought it might be. Normally I have an issue with these inn beds of Skyrim: they are often unkempt, often of an unpleasant odor, and far too often, infested. The beds of the Imperial City would shock some of these innkeepers with their cleanliness.

I linger upon the furs, missing my own bed. The adepts keep it pristine for me. This is likely why, I muse, my sleep had been so restless. It had been dreamless sleep, yes, but somehow… dogged. I raise my head after a few moments and notice, finally, that Lydia is not in the room. Her armor, pack, and bedroll are neatly stowed in the corner which she had chosen for herself. How peculiar, and how unlike her - or so I had presumed from my initial analysis of her.

I rise and dress myself. I have invested in some finer robes since finding myself constantly in the company of my housecarl. I look at my reflection in the small mirror by the bed. If I must wear something other than my dearest black and red, then I will wear blue. The color both matches and accentuates my eyes, after all.

Pulling on the handle of the door so as to hunt down my apparently wayward housecarl, I am able to move no further than the threshold before finding myself face to face - and, it would seem, front to front - with my very quarry. I happen to inhale just as our upper bodies touch, briefly, together. I scent the dust of the fields, pine trees, and that unique fragrance which follows her: that of ice, of snow, of something spiced. She backs away from me quickly, stammering something, though not before I feel a single startled breath upon my cheeks.

"Running away, already?" I tease, leaning against the doorframe.

"Ah, no, of course not…" She gathers herself. "I thought I would find you a proper meal - something better than just the bread and cheese we ate yesterday - but the cook isn't up yet and, well, I think my cooking would hurt you more than it would help you." She lets out a short, awkward laugh. I find myself smiling. She puts a hand on her hip: the first remotely feminine thing I have seen her do. "Oh well, I tried."

I go over to the empty cooking pot hooked over the building's central hearth. Looking around the room, I notice various vegetables, cheeses, and other ingredients. I go behind the innkeeper's counter, much to Lydia's vocalized disapproval, though much to my own pleasure, and I recover from it a whole wheel of Eidar cheese. A recipe comes to mind, a personal favorite which I have not made in ages. "Lydia," I turn to her, "have you ever had Elsweyr fondue?"

"Elsweyr- what?" She says as I go back into my room so as to retrieve a small pouch of moon sugar from my satchel. "With _that_?" She says in reference to the pouch in my hand as I reenter the main room.

"It is not illegal as a cooking and alchemy ingredient. The Mages College saw to that." I say with a smirk as I begin arranging ingredients around the cooking pot. "Be a dear and fetch me some water, will you?"

She does so, grumbling "I _know_ that," under her breath. I take a loaf of bread and begin slicing it while I wait for the water to boil. There is not very much in the pot, just enough to make it more of a soup and less of a slop, as my mother had preferred it. Lydia leans against the counter as we wait, giving me an odd look. "But you're a noble, aren't you? How do you know how to cook? Isn't a lady supposed to do, well, nothing? Or find a husband or something?"

"Aestus the Fire Hand had a saying, which he passed to his son, and consequently to the rest of us: 'All knowledge is worth having.' Whether it be to cook or to work a blade or a spell, my mother took this saying rather seriously." I say as I go about my task.

I melt the cheese and add a whole bottle of ale, ignoring a snide "We're drinking already?" from my companion. She pulls up a chair to watch me work. "So… do you have a husband, then?" She says this as casually as she is able - which, I might add, is not so terribly casual at all - and I can already detect a change in her countenance as she sits, arms crossed, likely fearing that she has overstepped some arbitrary boundary. In truth, she has… after a sense. She is the only inhabitant of this country to ever go to the trouble of asking me so many personal questions. If any of my other underlings were to have such audacity, I like to think that I would respond by cutting the conversation short rather quickly… with my knife.

If only she knew. "No."

"Oh… I'm surprised," she says simply.

I add the moon sugar and continue to methodically stir. "And you, Lydia?"

A short laugh. "I have never… ah… preferred men." Well, of course not. One could tell just by looking at her. "I don't have a wife either, though. Never really found a woman who suited me enough."

"Is that so?" My tone of voice immediately rises to that which would goad her. "And what, do tell, _does_ our Lydia prefer in a woman?"

The color of her face, in this moment, would make even roses jealous. I am about to ask her what has brought this reaction on, this endearing blush and stutter, when a door opens and in walks the young son of the innkeeper. A man between eighteen and twenty, he is polite and cheerful, though he was somewhat overzealous in his questioning of our battle with the bandits on the night previous. He has taken a liking to Lydia especially, much to her stoic chagrin. "What are you cooking, ma'am? It smells fantastic!" He approaches near enough to peer into the cooking pot.

"Elsweyr fondue," I reply, then reach into a pocket in my robes and pull out ten Septims. "This should account for the ingredients that I have used," I say as I hand the coins to him. I pour two bowls for Lydia and myself, then noticing that there is enough for three, I give a bowl to the young man as well.

"My thanks," he says as he sits at the table which Lydia and I move to. "I take it you're both leaving today, then?"

"Yes," I reply immediately. My mind has already turned to my dilemma of yesterday. I can not linger in Dawnstar now that Lydia has insisted that she must remain by my side. I watch her from a corner of my eye. I want to tell her that she should not eat so quickly, that it is bad for digestion. I mentally shake myself. I should just dispatch her, end her quickly. She would feel no pain.

I watch her hands as she rips her bread apart, as she licks her fingers. How uncouth. And if I do not kill her, if I keep her alive, then what am I to do with her? Where should I go?

The innkeeper's son sighs quite audibly. "I wish I could just come and go as I please. You have no idea how much I want to be an adventurer like you."

"Then go be one," says Lydia. Her bowl is empty, spotless, and I am surprised that she has not licked it clean. She eats like a starving dog.

"My father won't let me," he grumbles. "Says it's too dangerous, that he wants me to stay here and work the farm. And even if he did let me be an adventurer, we couldn't afford to buy armor." He dips his bread in the bowl and takes a bite. "I can't stand the thought of being trapped in this village for the rest of my days."

"The world is a dangerous place, Erik. You have no idea what you're getting yourself into," says his father, the innkeeper, as he enters the main room where we are sitting.

"But father—"

"And what's more, you've got no armor. We can't afford it."

The son, Erik, hangs his head. I rise, a certain memory coming to mind: a memory of a young mage with a similar desire to escape some preordained course of life. Driven by impulse, for this is what it must be, the note of credit for 500 Septims is already written and in the father's hands before I realize what I have actually done. "Buy him some armor." The words come without forethought. "Let him live as he chooses."

"This kind of money…" The father says. Then he bows to me. "You would give this much gold simply to protect the life of a stranger? You are… truly good." I feel a sudden… twinge, but my face remains composed. "Erik, I…" Looking at his son, he gestures toward his office. "Let's go have a talk."

As he rises from the table, Erik mouths to me: "Thank you." Then they disappear behind the office door.

I turn to Lydia. She has an expression on her face which I can not describe. It is one similar to that which she exhibited upon learning my name. "We take our leave," I snap. I return to our room and gather my belongings, my movements violent. She scrambles in right after me, though she asks no questions, and she is armored and ready to go in a matter of minutes. A magical fire burns somewhere in the pit of my stomach. _Why_ does she not ask? She has the audacity to ask about my marital situation, but not where we are going, and not why I am suddenly so furious?

The thought redoubles my anger. I storm our of the inn with her close behind. I will have no more of this… this influence which her presence makes upon me. She dies tonight.

I mount Shadowmere and kick his flanks. I bolt off in the direction of Dawnstar, my home, my Family. I will kill her. I will make it painless and quick. I hear her behind me, keeping pace, though I do not look back at her. I do not wish to see her face. After her, I will kill ten men. And then Cicero.

"Amara!" I hear her call. By Sithis, she is the only Nord who knows my name. She is the only emotional, ill-mannered, brutish, violent, simple, honorable, loyal, honest Nord who knows it. "Amara, stop!" Skulvar Sable-Hilt called Shadowmere a demon horse. Well, he is such. He can run for leagues without fatigue, which is much more than can be said of Lydia's horse, _which I bought for her_. I grit my teeth. Damn it all!

I slow Shadowmere down and eventually come to a stop. Lydia pulls up beside me. "We'll run our horses into the ground at this pace!" She admonishes. The mare is panting underneath her. I say nothing. She looks at me a moment and then dismounts and leads her horse to the river which runs adjacent and nearby to the road. She strokes the mare's mane as it dips its head to drink. I watch her. Her touch is so gentle, so much so that it seems completely uncharacteristic to her. Her entire countenance holds such profound empathy for the dumb beast.

By his own volition, Shadowmere begins to move toward the river. I, too, dismount once he stops before it. I look at Lydia. She looks back at me. Tentatively, she takes a small step toward me, close enough to reach out and place her hand on my upper arm. Close enough to clearly share with me that same expression of empathy. She is kind without knowing the problem. She truly is fearless in the face of death.

I say nothing. And she, with her hand so boldly upon my arm, says a single phrase to me. She could have said a million different things to me in that moment. She could have asked a million questions. But she simply looks at me, her green eyes bright, and says: "It's okay."

I say nothing.

* * *

_Author's Note, Part 2: I sincerely apologize for my long hiatus. Life got in the way... you know how it is. I can't necessarily promise that my updates will go back to being regular, but I can promise that I definitely haven't abandoned this story. Thanks everyone, and be sure to leave me a review!_


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